All five of my housemates were guys who were older than me and they treated me like their kid sister. BFK had three houses in Portland where its members could crash. Our house had the most full-time live-in guests, followed by the place next door, which housed three guys, including Cowboy. The third house was five miles away and was used mostly for conducting club business. The rest of our members, many of whom were married, had their own places.
I dressed quickly and went to the living room to find Doozer and Sweet Pea talking with Indiana and Jimbo. As soon as he saw me, Doozer broke into a smile that sent a jolt of electricity through my stomach.
“Hey there. We didn’t wake you, did we?” Doozer asked.
“It’s okay. I was just about to get up anyway,” I lied. This was the first day I had off in a month, and I’d planned on sleeping through most of it. Despite this, I found myself happy to see Doozer again, even if I was still a bit groggy.
“What’s up? What are you doing here?” I asked.
“The Saints wanted to help spread some Christmas cheer so Minus passed the hat at last night’s meeting. We came by to give Cowboy the money we collected,” Doozer replied.
“That’s sweet. Thank you,” I said, surprised by the gesture. The Burning Saints had earned the reputation of a club you didn’t want to fuck with, but Doozer had a sweetness to him that his tattoos and kutte couldn’t hide.
“Yeah, well. Just trying to lend a hand,” he said, before gesturing to the kitchen. “Hey, can I talk to you for a second? In private?”
I looked to see Indiana, Jimbo, and Sweet Pea all staring at us from across the room.
“Sure. Let’s step outside,” I said, leading us out to the front porch.
“So, you just came by to make a drop off, huh?” I asked.
“Yeah, well…” Doozer said, sheepishly. His boyish smile sending another bolt straight through me.
“Cowboy lives over there,” I said, pointing to the house next door. “So whatcha doin’ here?”
He laughed. “You’re really gonna make me work for this, aren’t you?”
I nodded.
“Alright, here it is. I haven’t stopped thinking about you since the other night.”
“Have you tried?” I teased.
“I can’t say that I have,” he said, taking a step closer. “In fact, the more I think about you, the more I want to think about you.”
“Look,” I said, “I don’t want you to get the wrong impression about me. Like I said, I don’t normally do that kind of thing and I’m not shopping for a fuck buddy or anything.”
“That’s good to hear, ’cause I was just gonna ask if you wanted to grab lunch with me.”
“Lunch?” I said, my voice cracking.
Oh, shit. This is worse than him looking for a fuck buddy.
“Yeah,” Doozer chuckled. “You know. Lunch. It’s a meal some folks eat around the middle of the day. I’ve been on the go since five A.M. and was gonna grab a bite at Sally Anne’s.”
“Are you talking about a date?” I asked, unable to hide the panic in my voice.
“Well, yeah.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I said, taking a step back.
“Whoa. Wait a minute. Did I say something wrong?”
I shook my head. “It’s not you. I just don’t really do the whole dating thing, ya know?”
Doozer must have thought I was nuts. Less than forty-eight hours ago I was begging for him to pound me into the headboard, and now I was afraid of going to lunch with him. If he did think I was crazy, however, he wasn’t letting on.
“I’m not asking for your hand in marriage, Trouble. I’m talking about sitting down over a couple of Caesar salads and a pitcher of iced tea,” he said, sweetly.
“I get that,” I said. “And I’m not trying to make things weird, I just think it would be best if we left what happened the other night in the past.”
“The mind-blowing sex, you mean?”
“Shhhhh.” I pulled Doozer away from the front door. “Yes,” I whispered. “But let’s not announce that to everyone in the house.”
“I had a great time, didn’t you?”
“Yes, but that’s not the point.”
“Right. The point is, you fascinate me, and I’d like to get to know you more.”
This time the electricity inside my stomach was so strong it frightened me. Every one of my internal organs wanted to run away, but my skin kept them in place, frozen on my front porch.
“Doozer, you seem like a great guy, but I really think we should make this the end of the road for us. Let’s just part ways here before either of us gets hurt.”
“That might be a bit of a problem.” Doozer’s hand went to the back of his neck and his face began to flush.
“Why?”
“Earlier, when I dropped off the check, Cowboy let me know you guys were gonna be down a man on your next run.”
“And?” I asked, terrified of what he’d say next.
“And… I sort of volunteered my services.”
I took another step back. “Why the hell would you do that?”
“I told you. I want to get to know you better. I figured I could do that if—”
“If you stalked me?”
“If I was on the road with you for a few days,” he corrected, stepping forward to meet me. “Honestly, I thought after the other night, you’d be into the idea.”
“Well, you thought wrong,” I huffed.
“Wait a minute,” Doozer said, breaking into a huge smile. “You’re not mad. You’re chicken.”
“Chicken? What are you? In sixth grade or something?”
“Ahhhhh,” Doozer replied, waiving a finger at me. “I’m right. You’re chicken.”
“I’ll kick your ass right here on this porch,” I said.
“I don’t doubt that one bit, but I’m still right,” he said, folding his arms. “You had as good a time as I did the other night, and you like me.”
“Immature and conceited,” I said, unable to hide my smile.
“See? You like me, but you’re too chicken to do anything about it.”
“I’m not afraid of anyone,” I said. “And you can take that stupid grin off your face.”
“Prove it…chicken.”
“I’m not chicken, I’m just not interested in you,” I said.
“Bock, bock, bock,” Doozer replied, folding his arms into wings, and flapping them wildly.
“Stop it,” I said, my smile now turning to giggles.
“Prove it. Prove you’re not chicken by letting me go on this run with you,” he challenged, all the while clucking and strutting around the porch like a barnyard rooster.
It was the silliest and most endearing thing I’d ever seen a biker do, but then again, I’d never met a biker like Doozer. He was tough and clearly knew how to handle himself, but he also seemed earnest and sincere. Doozer was also right. I liked him.
“Fine, but if you step out of line, I’ll pluck your feathers out one by one,” I said, poking a finger in Doozer’s chest.
“Wait,” he said, straightening up. “You’re supposed to be the chicken in this scenario.”
“We’ll see who’s chicken when the first group of kids show up.”
Doozer’s face fell. “Kids? I thought we were just gonna make a bunch of drop offs. Cowboy didn’t say anything about kids.”
* * *
Doozer
We were on day three of our week-long run and so far, had already visited two youth centers, five foster homes, and three churches. Each one packed with kids. The energy needed for unloading the truck was nothing compared to what it took to keep up with them. I could see why Trouble loved working with them and admired her even more for the work she did. BFK was proving to be a great group to ride with. Cowboy and his crew rode hard, fast and kept the grumbling to a minimum. The donated truck’s worrisome transmission appeared to be holding up fine and Trouble and I were getting on like a house on fire.
> We gassed up our bikes and the truck, and now it was time for our band of merry elves to top off our caffeine levels. As the newbie of the group, I was elected to pick up the group’s order from a coffee shop and was stoked when Trouble volunteered to go with me, as we’d had little time to ourselves. The breakneck pace of the trip coupled with the onslaught of rug rats everywhere we went made it difficult to find private time, but we stole moments whenever we could. Sometimes we’d talk, sometimes we’d make out. Either way, I looked forward to any time I could spend with her.
To my surprise, Trouble agreed to sit and have coffee with me while we waited for the group’s order to be filled.
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say this looked an awful lot like one of those date things,” I teased as we took our seats at the last vacant table.
“What can I say? You’ve caught me at a moment of un-caffeinated vulnerability.” Trouble smiled.
“Trouble,” the barista behind the counter of Flick’s Beanery called out.
“I’ve got it,” I said, standing up to retrieve her order.
Trouble shot me a mock dirty look. “I can pick up my own coffee.”
“I know, I know.” I said, politely waving her down. “I can’t help it. It’s how I was raised.”
Trouble’s head stayed cocked defiantly to one side. She wasn’t only sexy. She was devastatingly beautiful.
“If you don’t let me get your coffee, my mother is gonna jump out from behind one of those potted plants and hit me with her shoe.”
“That I’d like to see,” she said.
“I doubt it. She’d be after you next for not allowing me to be a gentleman.”
“Alright,” she said, once again trying to hide her beautiful smile. “Just this once.”
I went to the counter, picked up the coffee and slid a twenty to the barista while Trouble wasn’t looking. The barista winked at me, no doubt hearing me and Trouble’s conversation. Not that eavesdropping could be helped as Flick’s wasn’t much larger than a postage stamp.
“All clear?” Trouble asked as I returned to the table.
“No sign of Mama,” I replied, handing Trouble her coffee. “Thanks for keeping me out of her crosshairs.”
“Do you come from a big family?” Trouble asked, taking a sip.
“Not too big. We’d visit aunts, uncles, and cousins around the holidays, but growing up it was just Mama, Pop, me, and my two older sisters. And now my grandmother lives with my parents.”
“Your parents are still together?”
I nodded. “Married for forty years.”
“Wow, that’s pretty rare these days.”
“My folks are very traditional Italian,” I said.
“I noticed a Virgin Mary tattoo on your chest the other night. Were you raised Catholic?”
“Mass every Sunday and sometimes Wednesday nights, too. I even did the catechism.”
“What’s that?” Trouble asked.
“It’s something they make you do when you’re a kid. You take a bunch of classes for weeks and weeks and then the priest asks you a series of questions about your faith. You know. To see if you’re a good Catholic or not.”
“Any of it stick?” she asked.
“I joined a one percent motorcycle club. What do you think?”
“Sure, but still…”
“What?”
“Well, there’s the religious tattoos, and even though you’re a biker, you’re sort of…”
Trouble’s cheeks flushed.
“Sort of what?” I asked.
“You know… sweet.”
“Sweet? Aw, come on, man. Don’t say that,” I said, causing Trouble to break out in a full on smile.”
“What’s wrong with being sweet?” she asked.
“I’m wearing a kutte. Sweet isn’t exactly the vibe I’m going for,” I replied.
“Says the man with the mother of Jesus on his chest.”
“In case you didn’t notice, I also have tattoos of a Chinese dragon, a winged skull, and a demon wrestling an angel.”
“Which one’s winning?” Trouble asked.
“Maybe later you could take my shirt off and check.”
Trouble cleared her throat, before asking, “Do you get along with your family?”
I chuckled. “My sisters and I have always been pretty close, and I suppose my mother and I are as well, but my relationship with my pop complicates things between us sometimes.”
“You don’t get along with your dad?”
“More like he doesn’t get along with me,” I replied. “What about you? You tight with your folks?”
Trouble shook her head. “We’re pretty…fractured.”
“I’m sorry, we don’t have to talk about—”
“It’s okay. I’m the one who brought up family,” she said.
“The other night, you said you grew up on army bases, right?”
“One base. Fort Benning in Georgia until 2008,” Trouble said, sipping her coffee. “Dad was a sniper. Kind of a bad ass actually.”
“Was he ever deployed?”
Trouble nodded. “Yeah, he served two tours in Iraq and one in Afghanistan.”
“Wow. Being apart like that must have been rough on both of you. And your mom, too.”
“Me, yes. My mom. Not so much.”
“Ouch,” I said, sensing the tension between her and her mother.
“Yeah. My mom used my dad’s deployments to re-live her pre-married years, which of course meant her pre-motherhood years. She’d find some creative way to get rid of me for hours, days, and sometimes weeks while she shacked up with whatever dickhead of the month she could use and abuse, until they got sick of her, or my dad came back. Whichever came first.
“Did your dad know your mom was fucking around?”
“If he knew, he did the same thing I did, and pretended he didn’t.”
“Jesus,” I ran my hand down my face. “What a fucked-up situation to pin on a kid.”
“My mom wasn’t what you’d call ‘maternal,’” Trouble said, overemphasizing the use of air-quotes.
“Here’s to family,” I said, raising my coffee cup, and Trouble tipped hers to mine.
“To family,” she repeated.
“You said you were only in Georgia until 2008. Then what?” I asked.
“In January of that year, my dad came back from his final deployment in Afghanistan and was given a permanent local post as an instructor at the sniper school. At first, I was ecstatic that he was home for good, but things started getting bad almost right away. He started drinking heavily and he and my mom were constantly fighting. By the end of the year, he’d been written up twice and his job was in jeopardy.”
Trouble took a sip from her coffee and I noticed her hand was trembling.
“Hey, it’s okay. We don’t have to talk about any of this,” I said, sensing her discomfort.
“No, it’s okay. I never talk about my dad and for some reason I want to.” Trouble’s eyes met mine. “With you.”
I set my cup down and took Trouble’s hand.
“Was it PTSD?” I asked softly.
She nodded.
“Even though he’d done three tours he’d actually been deployed six times.”
“What were the other deployments for?” I asked.
“I’m not sure. He never talked about them, but I think whatever happened between Iraq, Afghanistan, and wherever the hell else he had been, really messed him up. He was never the same after he came home. He taught me how to properly make a bed, start a fire without matches, and shoot a rifle, but never talked about what he’d seen or done while in combat,” Trouble said softly, before taking a quick sip. “Anyway, he committed suicide when I was thirteen, so I never really had the chance to ask him.”
“Oh, Jesus. I’m sorry,” I said.
I had no idea what else to say. I had no way of relating to what she must have gone through, losing her dad at such a young age. Especially since she was so close to him an
d I’d spent large chunks of my childhood wishing mine would drop dead.
“It’s okay. It was a long time ago,” she replied, quickly wiping the tears from her eyes.
“I’m not sure there’s any amount of time that would make any of what you went through okay,” I said, gently squeezing her hand.
Trouble’s eyes met mine. “Thanks,” was all she said, but it was said with a vulnerability I’d not yet seen from her.
“Did your mom step up after your dad died?” I asked.
“Ha! Oh, god, no,” she replied. “She wrecked the five-year marriage of the pervy gunnery sergeant who lived next door and married him six months after my father’s funeral.”
“Holy shit,” I hissed.
“Then she expected me to live with this creep and act like he was my dad, and everything was normal. All the while, his old family is living directly next door. There would be shouting matches between the houses in the middle of the night. I lost count of how many times the neighbors called the M.P.s. I didn’t blame them. I hated those assholes too.”
“So, you split?” I asked.
“Not immediately.” Trouble cocked her head, her eyes studying me deeply for a few moments before continuing. “Jim, my so called-step dad put his hands on me, and my mother didn’t do anything about it when I told her.”
My blood instantly came to a boil. The mere thought of anyone hurting Trouble made me want to hurt them back. Really bad.
“I’m sorry,” I said, softly, realizing that my grip on her hand had tightened reflexively, but as soon as I let go, she took my hand in hers again.
Trouble’s eyes met mine again. “Stephanie,” she said. “My real name’s Stephanie. Cowboy started calling me Trouble the day we met, and it kind of stuck.
“I couldn’t be happier to meet you, Stephanie,” I said, before kissing her hand. “And you’re certainly no trouble to me.”
I had no idea just how wrong that statement would prove to be.
CHAPTER SIX
Trouble
Present Day
“REMEMBER TO CONTROL your breathing.” Taxi’s voice whispered in my earpiece. “Once you’ve lined up your shot, exhale normally, then hold your breath.”
I pulled my eye away from the scope, trying my best to block out Taxi’s chatter. I wanted to tell him to shut up and stop breaking my concentration but speaking would have meant giving up my position. Plus, the stupid jerk was right. I had a bad habit of breathing through my shots and likely would have done so if he hadn’t reminded me. Of course, I’d never give him the satisfaction of telling him that.
Doozer (Burning Saints MC Book 5) Page 5